Are we in a dream that thinks we are
a forest, or are we a
forest that thinks it is
a dream? Here below the greenery
the silent dove of my
being reaches one feather out
to you. Are we people dreaming we are doves,
or are we doves dreaming
we are humans?
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022
To Karl A.
You wore your grief unseen like
your skeleton: always there but never
directly in view unless you know the landmarks
to watch for after your true love dies.
What was it like, your passing? Did it quietly ring with
Amazing Grace going on ahead? Did you lean out
of your body, moving like clouds announcing a storm?
Was it like a math equation, never anything
but fixed and perfect?
Wherever and whatever you are, (or perhaps
you are undefinable) I am drawing a circle
of gratitude wide enough to encompass your compassion,
all your great glad works lighting our hearts, and more,
I am drawing the hoops and loops that humble and hold us in unity,
to invite one to kindness, to sow peace in an unpeaceful
world,
and to affirm that you are magnificently loved
like numbers love their own square root.
J. Pratt-Walter, ⓒ 2022
